


Liminal Spaces

by mnm_moons



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airport Fic, But I have no self control, F/M, No I dont, Sherlock Holmes is not a virgin, a man who was dead for two years and a woman who is still currently dead meet up in an airport, airports fascinate me, and if it doesnt i give you permission to call the cops on me, and its good pieces of dialogue if i do say so myself, anyway adlock is a hot ship, but thats not a topic for me to delve into, calm vibes ensue, everyone here his sentimental, her death was so fucking pointless like what did it even do, i refuse to believe mary died, idk if mary is even gonna show up here but if she does she is not dead, ill stop lol pls just read, im CERTAIN that a masquerade ball will happen at some point, im going too hog wild on the tags im sorry, irene and sherlock are babes, irene and sherlock have secrets, irene is a genius, irene is still legally dead, irene: i will not, irene: that is emotion, it just broke john to pieces no one needs that, its calming and casual, its not my fault i wasnt born when it was popular, john mulaney voice: STREET SMARTS!, like lmao literally fuck that im not taking away mary, multichap, no they will not fuck, sherlock and irene have a chat, sherlock: disgusting. take it away, sherlock: what is this, the thing is, theres a certain aesthetic to this fic, they are sentimental, they definitely fucked in karachi that will be mentioned at some point, theyre in love ok, this fic is for me, this was supposed to be a oneshot, what happens in airports fascinates me, yes I KNOW sherlocks not relevant anymore but DO I CARE, yes hello irene is my wife and sherlock is her husband
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnm_moons/pseuds/mnm_moons
Summary: A liminal space is the time between the 'what was' and the 'next.' It is a place of transition, waiting, and not knowing. Liminal space is where all transformation takes place, if we learn to wait and let it form us.Sherlock didn't think his reunion with one Irene Adler would take place in an empty airport, but in this moment, Sherlock wasn't complaining.





	1. A Liminal Space

**Author's Note:**

> sherlock isnt popular anymore and i hATE that so i wrote this fic because no one else will. direct action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me; haha wouldn't it be funny if there was a fic abt sherlock and irene in an airport haha very fun idea would love to read that
> 
> me, at 3am, writing this fic; it was just supposed to be an idea. iT WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE AN IDEA.

Coincidences. 

Sherlock knew about coincidences. He knew the universe was rarely so lazy about them, and he knew coincidences were confusing. Coincidences were rare and usually never the case.

But when his eyes met hers in a bare airport in that weird time where you're not quite sure if it's late at night or early in the morning and he noticed her dressed in a blue overcoat over a dark blue dress, her surprise to be seeing him there seemed genuine. She wasn't expecting him, and this time, Sherlock knew it was all just down to coincidence. 

He didn't know if he was disappointed at that. Of course, before their eyes met today, he'd shoved the thought of her down every time it surfaced, but to know that the one time they had finally met up again wasn't intentional, Sherlock felt like he'd been cheated out of a good reunion. 

Nevertheless, she was here now, staring at him with her blood red lips quirked up in a mischievous smile and her clear green eyes as keen and aware as ever. With her heels making a satisfying tap as she walked, Irene Adler strode confidently but carefully up to Sherlock.

"Fancy seeing you here." Her voice was slick and melodious, casual despite the fact that she was legally dead and this was the first time they'd seen each other in person in nearly 6 years.

"Speaking as the only one of us who's actually alive, I should be saying those words," he replied, not missing a beat. Sherlock couldn't deny the sense of pride he felt when he noticed the side of the woman's lips tug up in amusement.

They stood in a comfortable silence for a while, listening to the occasional business man pass by, the echoes of their footsteps slowly fading out. 

"You know," Irene's voice interrupted the silence, her tone playful and flirtatious, "airport dinner is quite good."

Sherlock almost laughed out loud. Leave it to Adler to make a move. "Three in the morning can _hardly_ be called dinner." The detective grinned down at her. She only shrugged, grinning back. They were happy with the exchange.

"Hm, you're right." Her tone was slow and thoughtful as she nodded. "How about three-ten in the morning?"

This time, Sherlock gave a chuckle. She seemed satisfied with that. He didn't respond to the question though. They both could tell the answer, anyway. 

So they stayed there, standing together. "Do you remember that night at Baker Street?" Irene asked suddenly. "Where I asked you if it was the end of the world-"

"Would I have dinner with you," Sherlock finished, glancing at the woman with an interested look. "I remember."

Irene continued, "Yes, well, I never really did get an answer for that."

"I think you did."

"Must have just missed it." She gave him a crooked grin. Despite himself, Sherlock couldn't help but offer a smile in return. "Mind saying it again?"

She stared at him expectantly, lips parted ever so slightly. Her eyes kept his in place. Sherlock nodded, ignoring how a loose curl spilled over his forehead. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I would have dinner with you."

A grin spread over Irene's face. She tucked his hair back in place leaving a burning sensation in the places her finger connected with his skin. Sherlock had a feeling she was storing away his words for later use. 

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, nonchalantly, "for when I cause the end of the world."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "I'll be there to stop you."

"Either way-" honey dripped from her mouth, laced with confidence and playfulness and capability "-I'll still have dinner with you then."

"Hm," Sherlock hummed, tapping his foot on the airport floor. "What makes you so sure?"

"Just a feeling." She checked her watch and sighed. "It was a pleasant chat, Mr. Holmes. But I have a flight to catch."

"What time is it?" 

"Three-twelve."

Sherlock straightened up. "My flight departs soon, too."

Irene stuck her hand out in a handshake. Sherlock stared at the pale hand before shaking it with his own. "I'll see you at the end of the world, Mr. Holmes."

"And I, you."

And with that, Irene walked off, leaving a trail of satisfying clicks of her heels against the tiles. Sherlock let himself listen to the rhythmic beat, feeling the slightest bit disappointed when the sound of her footsteps disappeared, leaving nothing but her memory and the fading smell of lavender, strawberry, and vanilla. 

Sherlock stood alone, in an empty airport, as if he'd always been alone. A minute later, he too walked off, his steps silent. 

And that one airport room was empty, containing nothing but the memories of a man come back to life and the woman who was still currently dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway yeah sgxhsx liminal spaces are really interesting and i love the thought of like,,, small moments that are only left to memory. 
> 
> like ya know,,,,, knowing something only you will know. i like the concept of meeting someone in calm situations and speaking as if no time has passed. 
> 
> i just,,,, got really passionate abt airports sgxgdgx
> 
> adlock is p hot and airports are p hot so yea thats the entirety of this fic in a nutshell. 
> 
> i wouldnt be opposed to like,,, continuing this but the thing is i dont think anyone will read it sgxhdhxhd the sherlock fandom like died or smth i feel like im sifting through the remains of an ancient graveyard and writing fanfic abt the people who died there oh my god
> 
> ily,   
alex


	2. A Plane Ride to Dubai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFZHSGZGSS OK SO YEAH THIS IS GONNA BE A MULTICHAPTER LETS DO THIS BROSKIS

"Well, this is awkward."

Sherlock looked up from his window seat in the plane. Not that he needed to; it was hard to forget the sound of someone's voice, especially if you've just talked to that person not ten minutes ago. 

Irene Adler stood next to him, smiling down at his seated body. "We've just said goodbye and it turns out we're going the same place." She scrunched up her face playfully before returning to her usual smirk. "Don't you just _hate_ when that happens?"

Her lipstick looked fresh, Sherlock noticed. She'd just refreshed it. 

Sherlock couldn't fight the small smile that appeared on his face. He didn't try to. "In this instance, I can't say I do." He paused before adding, "Wonderful to see you again."

Irene raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised, as she took a seat next to Sherlock. "Is that sentiment speaking?"

Sherlock only shrugged, earning an eyebrow raise from the woman sitting next to him. Irene offered him a lingering gaze. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"A flight to Dubai," he thought aloud. "What could a dead girl possibly be doing in a flight to Dubai at three in the morning?"

"Flying to Dubai," Irene answered, the smirk playing at her blood red lips a clear telling of her amusement.

She turned her attention to the screen in front of her and picking out a movie, tapping on some random romance one with her meticulously painted nails, which, like her entrancing lips, were the same shade of blood. Sherlock's focus lingered a little too long on this detail. 

Were her lips and nails meant to match? Did the color indicate danger or passion? Was there a significant meaning to the colors themselves? 

He shook himself out of his head and instead rolled his eyes at Irene's evasive answer. "I'll tell you why I'm going if you tell me why you are." An offer.

Irene looked up at him, arching her brow at the move for a trade. Very unSherlock-like. However, her expression was soon replaced with an unimpressed face which shifted into a focus.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, the only reason you ever leave your flat is for a case."

He moved his mouth to complain but she gestured for him to shut up. Sherlock closed his mouth, respectfully letting the woman continue her deduction. 

"You have no heavy luggage as far as I can tell, so you're not planning to stay long. An easy case, but interesting enough to lure you out of Baker Street.

"Now, it could be some government work, but you're flying _coach_ and if it were for the government, I'm sure Mycroft would have managed a way to get you a private jet, that's just how he is. Flying out at three in the morning, so I'm guessing the trip wasn't planned."

"Mycroft doesn't do that," Sherlock argued, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, please, he sent you to a suicide mission in one of Britain's private jets." 

Sherlock shrugged. He couldn't deny _that. _Huh. Maybe Mycroft really did spoil him. Nevertheless, let Irene continue.

She frowned. There was something else. "Oh!" She exclaimed. "There's no John with you. This is a _personal_ case."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed at that assumption. "He could just not have decided not to come, you know."

"That man follows you _everywhere_, he will _bow_ before you if you ask him to. It wasn't his decision not to come. You either snuck out of Baker Street without his knowing or you told him specifically not to come with you. Probably the former." 

The curly haired man rolled his eyes but couldn't help but offer a small smile as Irene concluded her deduction.

"You're flying to Dubai _unplanned_ for a case that had just _recently_ shown up," she summed up. "It's a case that interests you personally and you _don't_ want John involved."

Sherlock let a proud grin appear on his face. Almost accurate. "Do you know what it is?" He asked.

Irene shook her head. "If it's anything relating to Dubai news, I must warn you that I don't take particular interest in news that isn't directly relevant to me."

"Hm, no, neither do I."

Sherlock turned to Irene. Blue eyes met blue. "Then why are you going there?"

"I got pretty interesting news," Sherlock said, averting eye contact, "of an art show."

Irene waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she narrowed her eyes. "You're not going to tell me." Her voice was flat with annoyance.

He shook his head and grinned just the slightest bit. Irene glared lightly. 

"You want me to tell you why I'm going to Dubai."

This time, Sherlock nodded.

They stared at each other in a silent battle.

Sherlock could swear Irene's eyes flicked to his lips, but by the time he'd blinked, her irises were focused on his own. "If you want to know so badly, make a deduction, Mr. Holmes."

He took a sharp intake of breath in an attempt to calm himself. The gesture did not go unnoticed. The sides of Irene's mouth quirked up ever so slightly in a minuscule smirk. 

Sherlock ignored her amusement. "No luggage, fancy enough clothes, three AM, Dubai." Sherlock allowed himself to find a pattern or connection or any observations. It was a few seconds later when it clicked.

"You're going to Dubai and you intend to stay a while. Normally, little luggage suggests a short stay, but if it were a short stay, you'd dress in something more practical. No, it's a long stay, you just already have a _base_ located in Dubai. All your possessions are in that base, yes? Yes."

Irene rolled her eyes. He could swear he saw her silently mouth "Show-off." Yes, he was certain she mouthed that, for his eyes never left her lips. He let himself smile.

"Lack of a disguise suggests you're confident enough in not being recognized as Irene Adler to be out without anyone recognizing you. No disguise? Why? Wait - Oh, because you already have one. New identity, same face." He felt himself drop the smile. "You're no longer Irene Adler."

His eyes focused on the woman's expensive dress and coat. "New identity is placed in high power. You have money to spend and yet you choose to fly coach... why is that?"

Irene let her shoulders rise and fall in a subtle shrug. "I don't like the rich crowd."

The detective felt something off at that choice of words. Maybe a hint? No, Ms. Adler wouldn't spoil such a fun deduction with a _hint. _A subconscious choice of words, then. Ah. She was with the rich crowd, she just didn't _like_ that particular crowd. Somehow, this had something to do with finances. 

One last question popped up in his mind. "Something special in Dubai? Why there out of all places?"

The last pieces of the puzzle clicked in his head. He let himself smirk victoriously. "You're going to Dubai to get money, probably from a source based only in the country. But why would you need a new identity to access funds hidden in Dubai - oh. It's a person."

Sherlock frowned. "You're working for someone."

An eerie silence filled the plane, filled only by the light rumble of turbulence. Neither of the two passengers said anything for a while. 

Irene crossed her legs, making a point to do so slowly and suggestively. Sherlock's eyes noticed her every movement. She moved like a cat, lithe and aware. "Would you like to have dinner?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time this hour. "That won't work on me," he frowned. "I've seen you _naked_, you don't fluster me anymore."

She leaned up to him, a sultry look in her eyes. Sherlock stayed still.

"Really?" The woman's minty breath was warm against his pale cheek. Sherlock turned his head to meet her eyes straight on. They faced each other, no more than two inches away from the other's faces.

"Really," Sherlock whispered. 

Irene's hand snaked from his shoulder down to his own hand, glued to the arm rest. She laced their fingers, keeping her thumb on his wrist, almost comfortingly tracing circles. 

"Really?" She asked again, quieter this time.

Sherlock frowned. He did his best to keep his voice from hitching, using up all his willpower to keep himself calm. "Really."

Irene's subtle and suggestive smile widened. She leaned closer to his ear, sending shivers up his spine. "That's not what your pulse says." 

The detective's eyes flicked to his wrist, held steadily in place by Irene's thumb. He cursed internally. "Sometimes, pulses lie."

"But not this time." Irene pulled away. 

Sherlock let the silence engulf the two of them. He'd imagined this reunion to be filled with talking, light banter, maybe some suggestive statements, but in this moment, with a barely occupied plane to Dubai, that silence was much preferred. 

With the empty ambiance and occasional turbulence of the plane, Sherlock was soon lulled to sleep, smelling the scent of the woman next to him. Deeper breaths than usual made sure that the comforting aroma of the woman's perfume was inhaled in steady amounts.

It was early morning when the great Sherlock Holmes awoke and when he did, the woman who sat next to him was gone, leaving nothing but the faint smell of her perfume. 

Sherlock Holmes had just spent the night in a plane with a dead woman.

He let himself smile at her fresh memory and exited the plane. From his pocket, the familiar moan of a text alert rang out. Sherlock almost laughed. 

** _Irene Adler_ **

_I'm jet lagged. Still feels like Britain. Is it just me or is it the perfect time to have dinner?_

Sherlock smiled. He pocketed his mobile and continued walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sfzgsgxs so i have no self control and honestly writing a fic u want to see in the world is self care and god DAMN IT if i want to see adlock im gOING TO SEE ADLOCK
> 
> anyway i have the vaguest idea of how this will turn out but im full on here for the ride and honestly im 100% here for the story just as much as you are. 'you' being all 3 of the readers here lmaoooo sgzgsgx
> 
> im having fun with the dialogue here so far and im feeling #satisfied about my #choices and if you #dont like it then you can #pleasestayiloveyouandipromiseillgetbetterforyou
> 
> i love u broskis and good!!!bye!!!!  
-alex


	3. A Gunfight in a Masquerade Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fsgzggsz this chapter took a bit longer than usual because there was just so many things i wanted to put in that i couldnt and instead of accepting defeat i spent like a week going,,,, hm ok but can i add drama
> 
> anyway yeah im a fucking hoe for masquerade balls

Sherlock was never one to mingle with the rich crowd. 

Rich people were boring. They'd have everything they wanted handed to them in a diamond platter, stripped off of the hardships that people would usually face. There were no sob stories or moderately interesting things they had to do to survive that Sherlock found interesting in a person. They we're just that: rich and _awfully dull._

But there was something Sherlock liked about the rich - they were unpredictable.

There comes a time when someone has _too much _money. There comes a time when someone's bank account can buy the world, and when that time comes - if that time comes.... Well, people get bored. Culverton Smith all over again.

It's all just a matter of boredom. Sherlock of all people would know this, always uninterested at a degree, always so _terrifyingly_ bored. When you've got the world, you always want more. Sometimes, reckless spending will do you no more pleasure.

And bang! 

Like a shot that would start wars, scandals appear. 

Every headline every rich person had ever appeared on, Sherlock could easily sum up with "They were bored." Too comfortable with the comforting lifestyle, too tired of the life that you never had to sleep late for. Too _dull_. 

You never know what a bored person could do. 

And tonight, Sherlock was certain a bored someone was done with being too comfortable. 

The detective scanned his reflection on the mirror. His curls hung loosely around his head and his relatively new tux complimented his height, making him seem taller than he actually was. Around his neck, a bow tie wrapped itself snugly, a dark red that contrasted nicely with his boring black and white everything else.

In the inner pockets of his tuxedo, he concealed a gun. 

A fine gun it was, sleek and small and made virtually no sound at all. He'd stolen it from Mycroft's drawers, in the library of his brother's home. A good find, if he did say so himself. The younger Holmes brother quite liked how the gun looked nothing like a gun at all - more like an elongated, thin piece of pipe with a handle and a trigger.

The detective turned to his reflection, humming to himself. He looked rather nice.

His outfit, however, was incomplete. 

Sherlock took one last glimpse at his face before he raised the intricately decorated mask up, covering the space from his forehead to lower nose, leaving nothing in that space open besides his eyes, pale blue basically screaming when paired together with the rest of the sleek black mask.

The mask itself resembled a deer. The nose of the mask protruded subtly to make the effect, and the small and carefully carved curves and arches all blended together to look as regal and elegant as a stag - a clever joke Sherlock was fond of.

The detective in the deerstalker hat finally becomes the deer. 

He chuckled to himself in the empty hotel room at the thought and walked out to catch his ride.

* * *

The masquerade ball was hosted in a large estate in one of the main three ballrooms in such a home. People chatted politely to each other without so much as a hint of hostility in their kind words, but the malice and self righteousness in the guest's eyes as they spoke all told Sherlock he was in the right place.

Around him, servers wore white dress shirts and black pants with simple white masks to stick with the theme. Dancers onstage, on the other hand, wore jester masks, and important singers wore masks that looked of liquid gold on paper. The orchestra band went bare faced, no masks, only gold makeup.

Getting an invite to an event was easy, seeing as the people around him didn't seem to bother looking through someone's identity, only going straight to the numbers on a bank account. It wasn't very challenging to construct an entirely new identity and one that was rich. 

No one seemed to notice.

No, everyone was too busy noticing everything _else_. 

In a way, the ballroom was a battle field. Some were allies, all were enemies. At the back of the atrium above the main floor of the ballroom, two teens, both boys, smiled at each other in polite conversation.

Their eyes, though... those were calculating eyes, panicked eyes, eyes conditioned to pick out the most powerful in a group and befriend them. In this case, the longer Sherlock studied the masked teens, the longer he came to the conclusion that this ball was _very_ unpredictable indeed.

This wasn't what brought Sherlock to the event initially, though, however interesting it might be. It wasn't the way the upper class played, no. It was the fact the upper class were playing at all. Tonight of all nights.

A masquerade ball out of nowhere? In an insignificant day of the year? And all the powerful figures are invited? The whole thing was shrouded in mystery. An event with no reason to exist.

How could the great Sherlock Holmes miss this?

A ballroom full of power and a thousand unanswered questions. 

So, the question of the night was simple: what was going to happen _tonight_?

The phone in his pocket vibrated. A skim through the sender made Sherlock glad he had the foresight to turn text sound off before he entered the ballroom. Would have been an embarrassing situation to have a moan sound out from your pocket.

_ **Irene Adler** _

_I thought you were going to an art gallery._

A shiver ran up Sherlock's spine as the words filled his ever calculating head: _The Woman is here_. He looked around him, but all he could see were masks. His eyes flicked from face to face, but none were recognizable, none looked like the woman.

** _Irene Adler_ **

_Don't bother looking, I'm much better than you at disguises. _

Then, as if to taunt him, she sent:

_Self portraits, Mr. Holmes._

He frowned, knitting his eyebrows together in annoyance.

Sherlock could _feel _the woman's gaze on him, but he couldn't tell which direction it was coming from. A rich smell was coming at him from all directions. Irene was nowhere to be spotted. He gave up and sighed in defeat, turning his attention to the phone in his hand when it buzzed.

** _Irene Adler_ **

_Tell me why you're in a ballroom in Dubai surrounded by powerful, influential people rather than an art gallery._

Sherlock frowned. He let himself think before replying.

** _You_ **

_I am in an art gallery. -SH_

Ms. Adler's reply came almost instantly. 

** _Irene Adler_ **

_How?_

** _You_ **

_I am witnessing the art of war, Ms. Adler. -SH_

_ **Irene Adler** _

_Oh, dear god, you're not going to shoot someone are you? _

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from laughing. He walked behind a marble pillar and leaned against it, paying less attention to what was happening around him and more towards the phone in his hands.

** _You_ **

_You of all people should know war isn't always just shooting people. -SH_

** _Irene Adler_ **

_You threaten the national security of all of Britain exactly *once* and suddenly you're supposed to know everything about war. What unrealistic expectations are you threatening to put on my shoulders, Mr. Holmes?!_

Sherlock felt a smile tug up on his lips. He quickly extinguished it, but somehow, he knew for certain that the woman had already seen it.

** _Irene Adler_ **

_Please, though, Mr. Holmes. Behave yourself just this once._

_ **You** _

_Why? What's going to happen? -SH_

_ **Irene Adler** _

_Self portraits, Mr. Holmes._

The clinking of champagne glasses snapped Sherlock out of the attention of his phone. He raised his head to find the person who was creating the toast.

The man in question was onstage, adorning a glimmering mask resembling that of a snake. Next to him, a woman in a body-hugging black dinner gown and matching black fox mask stood, her elegant fingers closed around a sleek black phone and her pale blue eyes staring right at Sherlock. Her blood red lips matched her nails in a killer statement of their own. She was _captivating. _

_Of course. _Sherlock mentally chastised himself. He looked for the woman everywhere except for the one place the woman would be: in the spotlight, running the show. Right onstage. Self portraits, honestly.

By the time Sherlock had started functioning again, he'd already missed half the man's toast. His mind stopped functioning again, however, when the man next to the woman that could only be called Irene Adler grinned a smile with teeth clear as day and announced, "It means so dearly to me and my fiancée to have you all here tonight, celebrating with us."

Sherlock felt something in him shatter, processing the information delivered to him by that one sentence. _Fiancée_. Never had a word infuriated him so much. 

He caught Irene's eyes stare at him from behind her fox mask. Her eyes were full of indifference. She shrugged subtly, a gesture that could only be seen if one were looking at her as intently as Sherlock was. In this case, Sherlock was the only one staring at her as intently.

"My partner and I," the man next to Irene continued, joy in his loud and commanding words, "are both happy to announce our engagement to you today. From Mr. Godfrey Norton and Ms. Maria Baker, soon to be Mrs. Norton. A toast-" He raised a glass "- to a bright future."

And that was when the bullet whizzed past Sherlock's face.

Around him, everyone raised their glasses for the toast, unfazed by the bullet. In his chest, Sherlock's heart spiked with adrenaline. Just behind him, a small hole, the size of the fingernail on one's pinky, decorated the space next to his head.

It was when the second bullet rang out when Sherlock processed why exactly the people in the ballroom didn't act - they didn't even realize shots we're being fired.

There were no alarming "bangs!" or rapid fire shots. In a room full of rich, Sherlock was the only one aware of the gunshots - because he was the target.

The detective, careful not to make a scene, quickly speed walked to the other side of the pillar. Next to him, a small dusting of marble from the pillar flew off, signifying another missed shot. Sherlock considered thanking a god for the miss only to think better of thanking something that he wasn't certain existed, instead putting all his mental energy into anticipating the places the shooter would shoot and narrowly avoiding them. 

His hands held steady but his head in a panic, Sherlock carefully slid a hand into his tux pocket, taking hold of the gun hidden inside. He held it, concealed still but functional, thanking past him for bringing a silent weapon rather than a loud one. Around him, the upper class didn't pay attention to the detective, not the least bit aware that he was holding a weapon. 

Sherlock doubted they'd be as calm if they knew. 

Sucking in a deep intake of breath, Sherlock abandoned his cover in the pillar and turned his gaze to where the shots were being fired. His eyes met those of someone's in a banister, face concealed by a plain silver mask and their hand holding something inside their suit.

Sherlock caught their arm move from inside the jacket and another bullet whizzed past him, this time narrowly missing his torso. Sherlock gasped at the near hit before subtly aiming his own weapon and firing, aiming to injure rather than kill. Sherlock needed him alive after all. He missed.

Sherlock cursed. 

The figure only moved closer, their movements feigning calmness but their quick strides resembling an attack stance. Sherlock moved too. 

Another shot. Miss.

A shot. Miss. 

The detective and the masked shooter shared retaliated bullets, occasionally mixing into a large group of people as defenses. It was clear neither of the two intended to hit anyone else but the other. It was a dangerous dance they took part in. 

Sherlock moved to advance, and where an empty space once was, Sherlock found himself stumble. Irene Adler had materialized in front of him.

The shooting stopped almost immediately. Sherlock had lost sight of the shooter.

"Mr. Holmes?" Her voice wasn't her own. A french accent, subtle enough to be incredibly believable, if not slurred just the smallest bit.

"Mr. Reed, actually," Sherlock corrected distractedly, slipping into an American accent without much effort. "Neil A. Reed."

Irene frowned as Sherlock quickly scanned his surroundings for the shooter. He awaited bullets to hint him to where the shooter might be, but none came.

The detective's eyes flicked to the woman in front of him. He furrowed his eyebrows and tried to walk away. A bullet came from his left the moment he left Irene's vicinity. He quickly made his way back to Irene.

"You're apprehensive." Irene's voice was calm and steady, if not a little annoyed. The French in her voice was practiced, Sherlock noted. So she's been using it for quite a while.

Sherlock frowned. "I'm sorry, Ms. Adler. It seems I didn't behave after all." His eyes still moved to scan his surroundings, not glancing at the woman for more than a second.

"What?" Irene arched an impeccable eyebrow.

"It appears," he narrowed his eyes at a fleeting sight of a silver mask, "that I did end up trying to shoot someone."

"_What._" It was more of an incredulous statement than a question. 

"Yes," he said distractedly, waving a hand to let the woman catch a glimpse of his gun. Irene groaned. 

"Really, Sherlock. At my _engagement party_?"

"Hm, yes. We'll talk about _that_ later," the man in the stag mask muttered, earning an eye raise from the woman in the fox one. "It's all right, though. The shooter, whoever they may be, seems quite careful about not shooting _you _in particular."

"_Comforting_," Irene replied sarcastically. "Really, it is."

"I would expect so. They've taken the liberty of not shooting me when I'm within fifteen feet of you. Quite the compliment to you." Sherlock curled his lips in a determined frown. "Unfortunately, I for one, need them to shoot at me before I can tell where they are. Stay here."

Sherlock moved to leave Irene, but the woman followed. "I'm not letting you die at my party, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out an indecent groan. Stubborn. Annoying. "I'm not _going_ to die, Woman, the shooter's a terrible shot, honestly. Will probably hit one of my less important organs." He forced a smile, poorly hiding his annoyance at the woman's stubbornness.

Irene was glaring now. "Sherlock."

"Fine!" He scoffed. "Good luck trying to pull me away with _Mr. Godfrey Norton, _anyway." He said the name like it was the most annoying name in the world. Sherlock was quite aware of how much like a five year old he sounded.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Don't be _jealous_."

"I'm not jealous, why would I be jealous?" The sentence sounded less harsh in his mind, but when he surveyed the woman's face, she didn't seem phased by the insult, only mildly inconvenienced.

She curled her lip in a deep frown. "Stop that, it's _annoying_."

Sherlock scoffed again. Nevertheless, he stopped. The man tried to convince himself he didn't stop because Irene had told him to, but he couldn't seem to grapple any other reason for why he would stop.

"You know, sooner or later, your fiancé is going to take you off and I'll start getting shot at again." He said it just to annoy her, he knew that.

Behind her simply decorated mask, Irene's pale eyes rolled in an encaptivating motion. She took Sherlock's arm and practically dragged the detective over to the man she was due to marry. Sherlock did his best to look unhappy.

"Godfrey, dear-" Sherlock chuckled, but was stopped mid laugh by Irene's elbow "-might I engage Mr. Reed here in a dance?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Irene who faked a dazzling smile next to him. When he turned his attention to Godfrey, the man was smiling, too. It was almost infuriating how his face looked. Sherlock wished for a reason to be able to collide his fist with Godfrey's face. 

"Of course, Maria. Just save the next one for me, yes?" American accent, real. The couple shared a soft, loving laugh as Sherlock made sure to give Irene petty glares.

With that, the dead and alive began to dance to the soft sound of the band playing onstage. It began as a careful dance, not one to attract any eyes. 

Sherlock's hands were on Irene's hip and Irene's were around Sherlock's neck. Their movements however, were robotic and tense. No matter how hard Sherlock denied it, it was clear he was upset about Irene's engagement. Irene only seemed annoyed.

"Stop glaring at me," Irene commanded. 

Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes. "_Of course, Maria._"

"Don't mock him."

"I'm mocking you."

The pair exchanged glares. They swayed with the music a little more in a terse silence. Sherlock tried to convince himself it wasn't guilt that made him attempt to break the silence.

"Can you not be _any more_ sentimental? Maria Baker? You learned nothing from what got you in Karachi."

The ex-dominatrix narrowed her eyes. Sherlock noticed her body tense before calming. Sore subject.

"You say that as if you didn't go through the trouble of saving my ringtone and transferring it to your new phone." A ghost of a smirk played on her blood red lips. "And I happen to like what _happened_ in Karachi. Don't you?"

Irene focused her eyes straight on Sherlock's, both of them regarding the other like they were on even ground despite the fact Irene was a head shorter than the consulting detective. The man in the deer mask averted his eyes and sighed. "Fine. Tell me what Maria means."

"Hm?"

"Maria Baker. Baker's obviously an ode to Baker Street, but what's 'Maria' mean? An anagram or something?"

This was a much preferred topic. Irene's eyes almost went soft. "Maria Callas."

"The opera singer from the fifties?"

"Yes." Their movements were more fluid now, less tense as opposed to their previous conversation. "She was a Prima Donna. Literal sense, as in strong opera singer. Good voice, pretty face."

"So you sing?" Sherlock's interest seemed to focus in on this, to focus in on learning more about the woman. Little glimpses into Irene Adler's life he couldn't deduce.

Irene smirked. "If it's what people like." She dialed her expression back down to neutrality. "I do, but I took Maria's name more for the prima donna in the _insult _sense. You know, arrogant, self-centered, bitch."

Yes, Sherlock was familiar with the insulting use for "Prima Donna." He recalled John Watson calling him that once. 

"Ah, yes, I'm familiar with the term," Sherlock conversed, paying less attention to the way Irene's abandoned the simple waltz to a more complex, improvised move. Sherlock absentmindedly twirled the woman. She smiled at this. 

"And you?" Irene asked, in the middle of letting herself be swept up in an elegant motion. "Anything behind your 'Neil A. Reed' disguise striking enough to use as the identity you'd take to sneak in my party?"

He should've asked what was so significant about this party. He should've asked if Irene knew anything about the shooter. He, in hindsight, should've asked the _important_ questions. But he was enjoying himself too much in their conversation. _No such thing as too much, _the woman would say.

"How do you know they didn't invite me?" Sherlock synced his steps with Irene's, keeping both hands on her swaying hips as she moved to an elegant twirl and arched her back.

"I specifically asked them to inform me if a Holmes was coming. Disaster follows Holmes, see." She concentrated on her footing, anticipating a throw. 

"I'm flattered." His voice was sarcastic, but the twinkle in his eyes as he threw her into the air told the woman he was amused. 

Irene only laughed, letting herself be caught in Sherlock's arms. "Well you did bring a gun fight to my engagement party," she argued, graceful movements becoming erratically more complicated as she danced.

"What's the A stand for?" Irene questioned. "Neil A. Reed."

Sherlock let his shoulders rise and fall to a shrug, a soft smile playing at his lips. "Nothing, really. Just thought it was a nice touch. Considered just making it stand for 'Ar' as a joke."

"Oh, yes, I recall Mycroft making a comment about you and your weird fixation with pirates as a child."

"As a child?" Sherlock arched a brow. "Who says I ever outgrew it?"

Irene let out a laugh, smiling and rolling her eyes before focusing back on their dance.

Their bodies worked in unison to create a mesmerizing display. Irene was more flexible and sensual, but Sherlock's movements were polite and graceful, making the illusion that they weren't even on the floor, instead hovering over it.

"Quite the engagement party, by the way," Sherlock commented, his eyes momentarily breaking eye contact with Irene to survey the crowd. "Powerful people."

"Yes, Godfrey has connections."

"Is that why you're marrying him?"

"Who's to say I don't love him?" Her tone was almost defensive, and it unsettled Sherlock that he couldn't make out if Irene was serious or not. Behind her mask, Irene's eyes twinkled with defiance.

Sherlock went for the obvious. "He loves you."

Irene almost laughed, the sides of her lips quirking up in a cheeky smile. "Everyone does, he's not special."

"Not me." He tried to convince himself his breath only hitched because of the exhausting dance. But he knew his endurance wasn't that short. He wasn't the least bit tired.

"And is that supposed to make you special?" Her lips threatened a smile.

"It was just a statement. I don't love you. Make of it what you will."

Irene raised an eyebrow. She didn't believe him. He didn't believe himself either. Somewhere to the right, Sherlock caught a glimpse of silver.

The music died down. Their movements slowed to a waltz. Sherlock took his hands from her hips. Irene frowned but followed his movements, taking back her arms. 

"I was never quite the fan of engagement parties," Sherlock said, ignoring Irene's questioning look at the offhanded comment. He took a deep breath and continued, "Terribly sorry, Ms. Baker. Disaster follows Holmes."

A silenced shot rang out between them, audible only to Sherlock and the woman in front of him. Halfway across the ballroom, a man in a silver mask carrying a silenced gun hidden inside his suit crumpled to the floor. 

Irene's eyes widened. Screams of the rich filled the room as the body hit the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fsgzgsgzs okok so like,,,,, yeah lol 
> 
> honestly tho sorry if my writing is a bit jumpy because like i usually just write on the spot knowing what i want to write except this chapter kinda like,,,, took a couple days to crank out and like fUck because what i wanted kept changing and i had to make all these tweaks because if i didnt id go apeshit and regret it sorry
> 
> but im happy with how it turned out!!! i love writing their little banter conversations and like,,,, hhhhh theyre so cool i love them so much 
> 
> irenes really fun to write because its mostly just "oh haha u wanna fuck me lol,,,, but will i let u ;)" and a little bit of "oh i know ur in love with me i just dont give a fuck right now anyway lets talk abt how fucking sexy i am lmao"
> 
> sherlocks p chill to write too because hes a know it all and hes Really fucking arrogant and as a part time self centered asshole i relate like shit
> 
> fUCK there are crows in the tree in my yard and THEY WONT SHUT UP IM GOING TO SCREAM ok ok that was unecessary and i dont know why i even wrote that in my authors note honestly but im keeping it in there lmao 
> 
> aight thanks for reading i hope u enjoyed it i love u so much i have to go ilyilyily so much pls comment if u liked it helps feed my ego and god knows that bitch is starving
> 
> ily  
alex!!

**Author's Note:**

> pls follow my tumblr i need to be the center of attention all the time @skittlesun (https://skittlesun.tumblr.com/) thank u i love u


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